Manual for Listening at an Empty Station

At dawn the station unlocks its iron throat. Pigeons lift like ash from the timetable board. Rain threads silver needles through the rails. A vending machine hums to itself in blue light.

Commuters used to pass here, brief weather in coats; now only wind rehearses their unfinished names. I stand where departures once glittered, holding a paper cup warm as a small animal.

Across the tracks, weeds write green music through cracks in the platform's concrete teeth. Each drop on the roof becomes a drumbeat, then a river, then a quiet hand on my shoulder.

When the storm thins, the clouds unzip. Sunlight pools in the empty carriage windows. I leave without a ticket, carrying the sound of metal, water, and a place learning to breathe again.